


Every Child Should

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome Darcy Lewis, Darcy Feels, F/M, Family Issues, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Multi, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve, Should be a tag, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Still rocking that anon, Together Without Being Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"My parents hated it, thought I was going to grow up to be a whore or something."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take Bucky and Steve long to notice that there are certain times Darcy doesn't answer her phone.</p><p>(Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2347403">Oh, oh, oh</a> )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Child Should

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

Darcy wears large custom “Bruce Banner” (not Hulk) headphones (brown, not green) for a month straight when it’s brought to attention that there _isn’t_ any merchandise of the Hulk’s alter ego. Bruce is dismissive of the revelation in the way that makes it obvious that he’s _hurt_ by it but _knows_ he deserves no better, and Darcy takes none of it, harassing both Steve and Tony until the bass-loving speakers with Bruce’s adorable and obvious cartoon features are ready for her ears. It makes the scientist blush every time he sees them, makes him smile just a little, and thatmakes _her_ smile.

 

She jokes with Natasha. Not simple “Hey, did you hear-?” or “knock knock. Who’s there? Boo. Wait, you’ve heard that one?” jokes, nothing corny or rehearsed or found in a book. Natasha is scary, intimidating, but Darcy picks at her with the tenderness of an aware friend, pulling at her pigtails and laughing away her glares. No one else really does that with her, acts _normal_ and _welcoming_ with her, and if the spy looks a little ( _little)_ more vulnerable and longing around the younger woman at those times, no one says anything, and Darcy only does it more.

 

She hugs Clint. Like full-on, body crushing hugs, and doesn’t let go on some preconceived time limit of appropriateness, just holds him until his body relaxes against hers in what can really only be described as trusting defeat. She does it at least once every day, at random times, whether he’s been on a mission or in bed for the past four days – there’s no method, and when Clint eventually starts hugging her back, hugging her _first_ , well, Darcy clings and lets him cling.

 

She goes to Thor for advice. It’s a small thing, unremarkable, but it shifts something inside the wayward alien prince each time. His regal face softens from overeager cheer to gentle indulgence, and he stays unusually quiet as he listens to her talk, lets her spill whatever it is that’s wracking her brain, speaking only when she’s finished and waiting. Whether the advice is helpful or not is beyond the point; Thor never took the chance to offer his ear to his younger brother and regrets is greatly. Darcy takes his given label of “little sister” and gives it back to him.

 

She banters with Tony. _That_ is nothing new – between Tony Stark and Darcy Lewis, snarky inappropriate wit is the blood of the veins of the Tower, neither really able to stop themselves. But she does it gently, with a sort of awareness the billionaire lacks. Her words are sharp, but never sharp enough, and whenever she gets too close to Tony’s very rigged, wounded edge, she stops completely, changes the subject, says something incredibly _scientifically wrong_ that it lights up all Tony’s gears and gets him ranting in a different direction. She doesn’t treat him like he’s a menace, or a jerk, and when he slowly churns their heated conversations toward something that can possibly be called _friendship,_ Darcy lets and follows him.

 

Her innate kindness is one of the reasons Bucky and Steve fell in love with her.

 

They watch the carefree woman with their broken teammates in the way they can’t really watch her with themselves; watch her soothing touches and grounding words and the way whoever she’s near leans in toward her just slightly, like she’s a star, like she’s gravity. They see how unintentional it is, how oblivious she is.

 

“Look at her,” Steve always murmurs with a nudge, and Bucky always does.

 

The universe hadn’t given Darcy to them wrapped in words from their tongues. It had given her to a man who would have never seen ( _“will never fucking see”)_ how perfect she is, would never have taken the time to study anything but her body and the features of it that had captured his attention to start with.

 

But they see.

 

Darcy sucks on Hershey’s Drops like they’re going to disappear, one milk chocolate circle barely melting against her tongue before being replaced by another one. She wears large sweaters and scarves because she’s self-conscious about her chest, wears hats and dark colors because that insecurity had eventually grown to include her entire self. She listens to rhythmic music when she’s working in the labs and soft rock music when she’s feeling contemplative, and chooses most of her songs based on how they make her feel rather than their popularity. She sings in the shower and, while not phenomenal, she manages to stay on key even when Steve or Bucky (or both) lay distracting kisses on her neck, lick at the slowly fading words they’ve written across her shoulders. And she is always, _always_ near her phone, ready to respond to any text or call or Official Avengers Twitter (which she swears she did _not_ create) tweets and updates.

 

They see the times she doesn’t answer a call.

 

“Mmm, green this time.”

 

On the bed, Steve huffs a laugh as Darcy waves a thick Sharpie in his face, indeed capped in green in a familiar shade.

 

“Hulk green and Banner brown, eh?” Bucky drawls from the bathroom door, his own Sharpie held loosely between his metal fingers. When they look over, his eyes are as teasing as his smirk. “First those headphones and now these colors. Something you wanna tell us, doll?” He pushes away from the doorframe, sauntering toward them like a predatory cat, but Darcy only grins as she sits back on her heels, the mattress creaking with her movement.

 

“Well,” she says slowly, “Bruce _is_ pretty damned sexy, you can’t deny that. Considerate, attentive, and _those hands_.” Her eyes are wicked. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he had a domination kink, and wouldn’t _that_ be somethi-?”

 

Her words cut off to a small gasp when Bucky’s fingers sweep under the back strap of her bra, separating the black material from her skin as his fingertips skim across her spine and over; Steve doesn’t fight a grin of his own at the sight of them, warmth seeping into his gut at the sight of Darcy falling back against Bucky’s touch. A year into their relationship, and still the smallest touches across her naked skin on some place _other_ than her breasts pleasantly startles her (they’re always eager to feed that).

 

“Yeah, that’d be something. Smartass,” his soulmate mutters affectionately. There’s a quick twist of his hand, and the bra, unclasped, falls easily from her shoulders. “Don’t mind if I have you do mine in red, do you?”

 

“S-Stark color?” Darcy huffs, moving just enough to remove the garment completely. Her arms instinctually fold under her chest, covering the words she had been born with from their sight. “Really?”

 

“We won’t tell if you don’t,” Steve offers, shifting closer to them. He runs his own hand across the shoulder the bears the faintest hints of the words he had written days ago, delights in her twitching tremble. “I think I’ll take purple.”

 

“ _Clint?”_ His lovers choke out in unison, and he laughs again.

 

It’s like this, every night. Their days may be stressful and sometimes they may argue or snap at one another, but here, in the bedroom, they push it away – sometimes with ease, sometimes with force. It’s too fragile, too questionable to be careless with even now. Steve brushes his words on Darcy’s skin with soft artful strokes and Bucky curls his with artful precision, and one of them holds her against their chest while she slowly (still reverent) reapplies hers to the other. The sharp scent of permanent marker inundates and then fades as Steve falls back into Bucky’s hold with his arms wrapped around Darcy and they move together in all the wrong ways that are right.

 

(Sometimes, when it’s a little harder than normal, and little more angry, they fall asleep with Bucky in the middle, because those nights are Bad Nights. Sometimes, when the touches are timid and there’s not enough words, they push Steve in between them and hold on tight. Most times, though, when things go right, or when there’s too much uncertainty and hesitation, Darcy curls between a soldier and an assassin, their fingers in her hair and on her skin. It’s just the way they do it).

 

Tonight, Darcy’s face buried into Bucky’s neck and Steve arm around her hips, the familiar customized buzzing of her phone rattles the nightstand. And like the past five nights (nights just like this), Darcy doesn’t even glance at it, burrows closer into Bucky as goosebumps bubble up under Steve’s grip. It buzzes five times before abruptly going silent, the light of the screen casting a glow on the ceiling that doesn’t fade.

 

“Who’zit that keeps callin’ you?” Bucky rumbles, and Steve tenses along with Darcy. They’ve both agreed to not actually talk about it until Darcy’s brought it up, but it’s the _fifth night_ in a row, and that it’s the only call she ignores, the only time her kindness doesn’t automatically reach out makes them anxious (Someone’s bothering her, pestering her, _making her upset-)_

The woman between them sighs heavily, an exhale so deep she physically deflates against them, and they both ache for it.

 

“It’s October,” she says after a moment; it explains nothing and she knows it. “Lewis Family Get Together time. Yay.” There’s no enthusiasm behind her words, her body doesn’t even move.

 

“Your family?” Steve questions, and Bucky’s fingers brush against his own on her hip. Outside of the occasional off-handed quip, Darcy never talks about her family, offers up no information at all (they don’t push, either, because the off-handed quips, while nonchalant, never sound exactly … nice).

 

“’S’ my mom.” She sounds tired, but she pulls away from Bucky’s neck so her words are clearer. “No one actually, you know, _wants_ to see me, or anything like that – my grandparents are both dead. But it’s considered rude not to show up. It’s not like you’re not given enough of a notice to plan ahead, since it always happens at the same time of the year.” It sounds recited, and she snorts. “It’s no big deal, though. I actually _didn’t_ go last year, so that’s probably why she’s calling so much. Give it a couple of days, she’ll stop. I’ll turn it off at night, too. Sorry.”

 

She settles back down between them, tense, buries into the pillow instead of Bucky’s neck and doesn’t draw in Steve’s arm.

 

The light from the phone’s screen finally blinks out. They’re both frowning.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Unintentional, but after _Oh, oh, oh_ and a dig in _Barbie Doll_ , I could not get the thought out of my head of how Darcy's family would react to her forming a relationship with someone (multiple someones, as it were) that wasn't her soulmate. More particularly, in this story, how her relationship with her family would have developed with the words she _did_ have. 
> 
> So let's go on a journey and find out.
> 
>  
> 
> (Shout out to Empress_of_Plotbunnies, who wanted more (maybe not this more?) as well as (of course) ErisDea and Rainne inspiring any of these ideas in the first place)


End file.
